


The Giving Tree Remix

by KBZ



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Violence, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:51:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KBZ/pseuds/KBZ
Summary: Maybe the tree was looking out for Seijuro. He took care of it, and it took care of him.





	The Giving Tree Remix

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in FF.net in my "Ad Nauseam" work.

Behind the Shin household was a tall gnarled tree. Its bark was black and lifeless. It didn’t grow leaves anymore, but its branches were so many that it provided shade enough to rest under. But:

“Don’t sit by it,” Seijuro’s mom, Hisa, would say, even on the hottest days when their AC was broken. Seijuro never asked why, because his mom would say it in an offhand manner, like it was as obvious as not running into traffic.

“Okay,” Seijuro would say back, playing with his trucks in the kitchen.

* * *

Seijuro’s dad was named Gaku, and he would take his son to the park on Sunday morning where they’d chase pigeons and toss Seijuro’s plastic ball. Sometimes they’d fly kites or feed the ducks. When Seijuro was tired, Gaku would place him atop his shoulders. He’d order two cheese taiyaki at a local stall.

This first time Seijuro saw the fish shaped cake, he threw it in the river.

“It needs to breathe,” Seijuro said anxiously as chunks of the cake absorbed water and broke off. He was almost four.

“They’re not real.” Gaku broke his taiyaki into two steaming halves, and Seijuro took one shyly. “Here, eat it.” He took a bite of his own.

Seijuro nibbled on the edge of the crust. His eyes widened, “It’s good!”

“No more throwing, then?”

Seijuro gave a resound head shake.

Sometimes Gaku would even share a dessert with Seijuro. Candied strawberries when it was strawberry season, shaved ice in the summer, dango when there was nothing closer. They’d be back by the afternoon, walking hand in hand through the neighborhood.

“We’re back,” Gaku would say. Seijuro would wait at the entry of their house, barely breathing while his parents greeted each other.

“Hello, darling,” Hisa would say, rubbing her hands on her apron. She always had the house spotless, the meals were always warm and delicious. Depending on Gaku’s mood, he might give Hisa a light kiss or a black eye.

That was as good as Sunday’s got.

* * *

“Mama,” Seijuro said quietly, his small hand on her shoulder. “Mama.”

It was Friday, the second paycheck of the month. Gaku, after cracking Hisa’s nose to the left, went out to drink the money away. Seijuro’d been upstairs playing with his kitten.

Hisa had cleaned much of the blood and changed into a fresh dress. “Yes, dear?” she said, hand covering her face. “I’m going out, stay put okay?”

“Okay,” Seijuro said even as his eyes teared up. He didn’t like when his mom left, but there were plenty of snacks, and she always came back before his dad did. Hisa wiped his cheeks with the corner of her dress. She wrapped a cloth around some ice from the kitchen, and then made the walk to the nearest emergency room. She wasn’t allowed to drive.

* * *

“Mama! Mama, Rin!” Seijuro was six, and he carried his kitten, Rin, in his tiny arms. Her mewls were weak and strangled. She was… deformed… and twitched painfully.

“Darling, what happened? Oh Rin, sweet thing, no…” Hisa wrapped Rin up in a spare blanket. Seijuro was beside himself as he cried through all the terror of experiencing the first death in his life; he looked down at his arms, and cried louder at the sticky blood slathered on him. He followed his mother outside. It was summer, but the tree’s branches were barren as ever.

“I was playing outside – and, and I didn’t close the door, and Rin ran! And then the car! But I was too slow, and they didn’t see, and they left, Mama, I’m sorry! Why did it happen?”

“Baby, it’ll be okay,” Hisa ran her fingers through Seijuro’s hair. They were right outside of the broken shadow that fell from the tree’s gnarled branches. “She didn’t know any better, honey. She’s going to be leaving us, so she won’t be hurting anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Rin,” Seijuro warbled.

Then Hisa did something that Seijuro had never seen anyone do before: she stepped into the tree’s shadow. Seijuro thought the shadow might swallow her up, or that the tree’s branches might descend like a cage and trap her, or something else equally awful. But none of that happened. The hot summer day continued around them while Seijuro waited, eyes wide as he watched his mother place Rin – still bundled up – at the base of the black tree and walk back to Seijuro. She took Seijuro away from the reach of the tree’s shadow, and they sat with their backs to it.

Seijuro felt an unnatural chill run up and down his back. He’d never felt the tree’s ominous presence in such a manner like he did then. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his vulnerable back exposed to the tree, but he trusted his mother and was too scared to turn around and look at what was happening.

A deep, muted sound rumbled from earth. It sounded like a churning, like logs being dragged across creaking wood flooring. Rin mewled once, a pitiful and pained sound that struck deep in Seijuro’s heart, and then, with another low splintering sound, it was quiet. Even the cicadas had been silenced.

“Mama,” Seijuro whispered as Hisa turned them around. “What happened?”

Rin was gone, leaving nothing more than a ruddy stain that was already seeping into the soil.

“Seijuro.” Hisa rarely used Seijuro’s name. “The tree is ours, but we belong to it, too. My family has lived here and taken care of it since your great-grandmother was a little girl. Her father made a deal for protection, and now there’s some sort of… spell, _something_ … If we take care of it, it’ll take care of us.”

“Why did we need to give it Rin?” His arms still gleamed with his kitten’s blood. He rubbed at his face where the tears had made his cheeks itchy.

“We had to. If we keep it happy, it won’t let anything harm us. We give it things, Seijuro, darling, do you understand? And it keeps us safe.”

In the afternoon summer-sunlight, Seijuro could see perfectly the bruises around his mother’s throat peeking out from behind her thick turtleneck sweater. Her nose was crooked to the left, marring an otherwise traditional beauty.

Seijuro was six. His cat had been run over. His mother was a kaleidoscope of bruises at the unpredictable hands of his father. Seijuro wondered what worse things the tree must have been protecting them from, then.

* * *

His father came home that night in a chipper mood from the office.

“Hisa,” Gaku said, smiling widely. He held his arms wide and she and Seijuro ran into them. “Baby, guess who got the promotion?”

“Oh, darling, that’s so wonderful!”

“Everything’s going to change now that money won’t be so tight, I promise, baby.”

Hisa avoided mentioning the drinking bills that Gaku racked up. (A six-pack split up over Friday and Saturday, _every_ Friday and Saturday; another one dedicated to every Sunday evening; the daily rum and cokes, multiple beers with dinner, the nightly bar expenses.) She smiled tightly. “Of course, darling.”

Her placations might have worked on any other night, but Gaku was sober this night.

“What tone was that?” Gaku asked. His anger was always simmering right below the surface.

“I didn’t have a tone, darling,” Hisa said. She went into the kitchen, quick, and brought out dinner. Gaku had already slipped off his jacket and tie.

“Nuh-uh-uh, you had… a _tone_ when you said that. Do you not believe me?”

“I… Of course I do, you’re right. I’m sure… I _know_ it’ll be different…” Hisa set down Gaku’s plate. Gaku tracked her movements but remained silent. A rueful smile was twitching at his lips as he waited. “I… I didn’t mean… Darling, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t mean what?” Gaku clicked his teeth at the end. “Hm? I was in and out of meetings; I haven’t drank a single damn thing all day, and you’re testing me now, eh? Is there even a point of me trying, then, if you won’t even support me?”

“Gaku… _darling_ , please.” Hisa darted her eyes at Seijuro. He was sitting still, looking down at his curry.

“Fine. _Fine_. I’m letting it go. I find it easy to use civil, respectful tones when I talk.” He tucked a napkin into his dress shirt and dug into his plate. His eyes – glassy, dark, simmering – were still waiting for an excuse. “Where’s the damn cat? Did you feed it, Seijuro?”

“I-”

“She got hit by a car,” Hisa said quickly. “I was tending the flowers and was only out for a moment, but she ran out. Darling, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“We spent nearly a damn grand on that cat.” Gaku’s eyes locked onto Hisa. She stood her ground behind a dining chair, cautious to keep herself between her husband and son. Her thin frame trembled under Gaku’s steely gaze. “The vet, the shots, the food, those toys you said it needed!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What will we do about this, darling?”

“Gaku – please-”

Gaku was a heavy man, the drink having made his arms and gut and legs thick, but he was powerful like all fathers were. Worse, he was quick. He closed the distance between him and Hisa before she had time to react. His fist hit home at her jaw, across her lips. Two forceful strikes, each landing with a wet thud, and that was all it took for Hisa to crumple onto the ground in a trembling mess. Gaku relaxed his shoulders. He wiped his bloody knuckles off on Hisa’s apron. On his way to get his coat, he ruffled Seijuro’s hair.

“I’m going out to get a drink,” Gaku said easily and stepped out.

“Mama,” Seijuro whispered, at his mother’s side.

“Shh, Seijuro,” Hisa said. Her lips were split and mangled, blood flowing past her fingers where she tried hiding the gore. Her jaw already sported the beginning of a large, swollen bruise. “I’m… fine… safe.”

 _She didn’t know any better, honey_. The words echoed in Seijuro’s mind at the pained mewls that his mother couldn’t help but let out. _Didn’t know any better._

* * *

As Seijuro grew, he was diligent to keep the tree happy.

Seijuro would place a gift at the base of the tree trunk and sit away from the reach of the tree’s shadow, and when he would turn back around, it would be gone. Rare baseball cards, stuffed animals, his favorite meals. The tree ate them quickly, in a knot of roots and left nothing. It offered nothing in return. If anything, Seijuro’s father got worse.

Before Seijuro was nine, “papa” became “father.” He saw instead the face of an unknown: of either carefree Sunday afternoons or blinding strikes to the stomach. A Sunday evening could polymorph back and forth between happiness and hatred in a split second. There was a small part of Seijuro’s mind that hated his father to the core, hated how the man abused and berated and betrayed; but Seijuro also loved his father. Maybe it was that through all the pain, the few moments of bonding time seemed so much sweeter in retrospect. So even though Gaku was “father” now, he was also sometimes “papa,” and the off-chance that Seijuro would experience a kind gesture from him was enough to overcome the terror of abuse.

But there was also the tree that supplied Seijuro with a seed of hope. Every time he offered something, he thought that maybe this would be the turning point.

He was plagued with intrusive thoughts whenever he saw the dark shadow of the tree, its hungry branches. _What if it needs something more?_ He had nightmares about killing, his hands tied with dirty roots like a puppet, forcing his hand on neighbors. The tree’s black branches would curl around his dreams, and he’d wake up, sweating and no less rested.

* * *

Seijuro was ten, and with the shrewdness of a child, he could tell something was different the days leading up to Hisa entering his room. It was lunchtime, and Gaku was at work and wouldn’t be coming back for hours.

“Baby, let’s pack up your favorite clothes, okay? We’re going somewhere.” Hisa handed Seijuro a backpack, and he held it open as she crammed in clothes and a few of his toys.

“Where are we going?”

“To this nice house far away from here with nice people.”

“Why?”

Hisa guided Seijuro downstairs by the hand, her steps quick and sure. By the front door were two suitcases and his mother’s purse.

“There’s… well there’s these nice people, and they’re going to help us.” Hisa touched her crooked nose absentmindedly.

“We’re not coming back are we?” Seijuro looked at his mother with distrustful eyes. His father had done an excellent job at ingraining himself into Seijuro’s life by doling out abuse and affection in equal and unpredictable measures.

“Honey, you’ll like it there,” Hisa’s eyes misted. She knelt down in front of Seijuro and grabbed his shoulders. “There’s other kids there for you to play with, and you’ll get to go to a new school and make all new friends. Won’t that be fun?”

“No…” Seijuro murmured, ignoring looking at his mother’s face.

“Darling, _please_. Darling, baby, please we need to go. We need to catch the 2:15 bus.”

“I don’t want to leave father.”

“It’s not your choice, baby. I’m making this choice for us, and we’re going.” Hisa opened the front door, squared her shoulders, and picked up their suitcases.

Seijuro ran out of the door, barefoot, into the cold winter afternoon. At at ten years old, he had acquired a short lifetime of self-hatred and frustration to fuel him for miles and miles. He sprinted as fast as his little legs could carry him, and he ran away from the cries of his mother, the black tree, and his father. His feet and hands grew numb, but he ran through busy streets and in between people. He ran until it turned dark outside. He ran like he had somewhere to be; he ran like something was chasing him.

Through tears, Seijuro found himself in front of a police station. A small, barefoot, crying ten year old boy in a thin sweater, in front of the police station. Maybe the tree was looking out for him.

* * *

The police officers wrapped Seijuro up in a thick blanket and sat him in a puffy rolling chair in the captain’s office. Seijuro responded with “thank yous” when given hot chocolate and strawberry-frosting donuts, but nothing else to their questions or comments. They were nice enough, but all looked too much like his father in one form or other: either the same build, or coloring, or mannerisms – just enough to make Seijuro deeply distrustful. Finally, the police brought in a young man with snow in his hair and the warmest eyes Seijuro had ever seen.

“Hi, buddy. Sorry I took so long to get here, I brought you something. Heard you were barefoot,” the man took out a pair of fuzzy toe-socks from his pocket. They had calamari on them, and each toe was a different sort of sushi.

“Thank you…” Seijuro said carefully. He looked from the man, to the socks, to man again, before sticking out his small hand and accepting the gift. The man let Seijuro put the socks on himself while he set out some papers and took a sip from a Styrofoam cup.

“How’s that feel? Better?”

Seijuro wiggled his toes in response.

“Good, I’m glad! My name is Sena Kobayakawa, but you can call me Mr. K. What’s your name?”

“Seijuro Shin.” Mr. K gave him a bright smile, and Seijuro wrapped himself tighter into the blanket, suddenly shy.

“The police brought me in because they felt you needed someone to talk to. They said you ran up to the station without even a jacket! Is that right?”

“Yes…” Seijuro felt a tendril of shame spiral around his belly. The hot chocolate and donuts sat heavy in his stomach, and he thought that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to run.

“Weren’t you cold?”

“I didn’t feel it because I was running.”

“Why were you running?”

“I don’t know.”

Mr. K took another sip from his drink. “Do you know your address or home phone number? I’m pretty sure your parents are worried sick.”

Seijuro nodded, but the motion made him dizzy. Part of his vision was giving way to black splotches. “What time is it?”

“It’s 6:47. Are your parents home at this time?”

Oh, yes, his parents were home. His father liked to eat an early dinner when it wasn’t paycheck day. Seijuro could imagine it now: his dad swaggering in to find his wife with packed suitcases, their son nowhere to be found, and no dinner either. His father was a master at not leaving bruises, and would have been home for almost an hour already.

“I don’t feel good,” Seijuro said, before black completely overcame his sight.

* * *

Once a week, Seijuro had a meeting where he would talk with Mr. K in a playroom while they colored or played with blocks or molded clay. Mr. K was like the best parts of his mom and dad all in one person. He was… stable and warm. Seijuro always knew what to expect when he was dropped off, and he had nothing but pleased smiles when he saw his mother in the waiting room after the session was over.

“Mr. K,” Seijuro said, solemnly, “will you marry me?”

“Oh,” Mr. K said. He paused but Seijuro barely noticed it. “You wouldn’t want old Mr. K as a husband!”

“I’d be the husband. You could be the wife.”

Mr. K laughed a full body laugh, but not meanly. “Well what if we become best friends instead? That way I don’t have to wear a dress and look ridiculous, huh?”

Seijuro relented that that would be enough.

For the next year, Mr. K visited their home the first of every month. Gaku was a great actor, and life wasn’t as bad for that year. Seijuro looked critically at his father, Gaku’s eyes cold and calculating, and knew deep inside that it wouldn’t last, but he let himself enjoy it. And at some point, being only eleven and optimistic, Seijuro let himself believe that it wasn't a ruse.

The only thing he didn’t enjoy was the tree. Every night before Mr. K was to visit, Seijuro could feel the shifting roots rumble through his bedroom, hungry and yearning and utterly threatening. Seijuro had stopped placing offerings, and he knew that starving animals were the most dangerous of all.

* * *

Seijuro was supposed to be doing homework when he overheard a conversation between his mother and Mr. K one Friday afternoon while his father worked. Seijuro frowned. Mr. K had already visited that month, but he could recognize Mr. K’s voice anywhere.

“… options out there,” Mr. K murmured.

“I don’t know, I just don’t know.”

“Document everything. Everything. You have a case here, and you have support now.”

“Seijuro doesn’t want to leave…”

“Respectfully, Mrs. Shin, how can you be so sure?” Mr. K’s voice had an edge.

“Well… I tried… before… and then…”

Seijuro strained to hear more, but there were a few more murmurs before the front door closed. He pressed himself to look out his window and saw Mr. K’s retreating figure heading to the bus stop.

The following Monday, Mr. K delivered the worst news Seijuro had ever heard:

“This is our last session.”

Seijuro stopped stacking his legos. He didn’t believe it. “Why?”

“You know, I’ve been trying to help your family… find balance, and my bosses think we’ve accomplished our goal.” Mr. K didn’t look so convinced.

Seijuro was still convinced he would be back the next week even as his mom filled out paperwork. While his mom wasn’t looking, Mr. K gave him a small white business card with his phone number on. On the back it read: _Best friends have each other’s phone numbers :) Good luck, Seijuro!_

The Shin’s only had a landline in Gaku’s office which he kept locked, and the nearest payphone was a bus stop away from the house. Still, Seijuro kept the card hidden underneath his underwear drawer, like a secret.

* * *

The Gaku that had existed before Seijuro ran, reappeared in the same, undisturbed and violent force now that were was no accountability. Seijuro should have known better.

* * *

When Seijuro was sixteen, his mother was hospitalized.

“She fell down the stairs,” Seijuro whispered his rehearsed lines under his father’s scrutiny. The doctor shared a glance with the nurse. Seijuro didn’t have to look at them to know that only professionalism kept them from saying anything. “I think it was her slippers. Mom has always been clumsy.”

“Right. Well.” The doctor looked over her clipboard again. “I’ve heard a lot of interesting stories, and I think I have a pretty good imagination. But this kind of damage doesn’t just-”

“But,” Gaku interrupted. “It did. Can you or can you not get paralyzed from falling down the stairs, doc?”

“Yes,” the doctor said through gritted teeth. “The trauma around the neck suggests-”

“I miss my dear wife. Just wake her up and make her better.”

The doctor glanced at the nurse again, and Seijuro felt his body turn cold. “That was something I was meaning to talk to you about,” the doctor said.

* * *

Gaku took Hisa off of life support thirty-one hours after Hisa was admitted into the hospital.

“I need to save for your tuition.” Gaku waited behind the wheel in the car, silver flask in hand, while Seijuro watched his mother die.

It wasn’t quiet. There were awful sounds that the nurses assured him was just air. It sounded like pained mewls, and over ten years later, Seijuro still remembered that summer day when his kitten had been run over and his mother’s words. _She didn’t know any better._

* * *

Gaku sipped from the same flask in the car while Hisa was cremated. Seijuro stood in the room for as long as he could bear, covering his mouth and nose at the smell.

His mother’s ashes were presented in a stainless steel canister. Gaku never asked to see them or told Seijuro where to put them – not that he would have listened. Seijuro had already planned where to scatter them. It seemed fitting that it was another hot summer day when he approached the tree.

“Will you be content now?” Seijuro asked. He placed the canister at the trunk and turned around. His teeth were gritted, his fists clenched. He felt like a spring that had been wound and compressed, and that any disturbance, he would explode under the pressure.

* * *

“You ungrateful, brat.”

“Disrespectful, ungrateful boy.”

“Emotionless brat, I’m talking to you, listen to your elders when they speak to you.”

Gaku was an expert at not leaving bruises.

* * *

It was just never enough, Seijuro thought as he tossed and turned in bed. The tree’s roots were rumbling deep in the earth again, haunting Seijuro’s dreams, demanding for even more. What did it want? What did it _want_?

 

_Blood, darling. Life blood. Something precious._

Seijuro went to his desk and pulled open the drawer where he had kept Mr. K’s card all this time.

* * *

It had been five years since the last time Seijuro had seen his case worker, but nothing had dulled in that time. Mr. K had aged well, and was a lot younger than Seijuro had imagine him to be even five years ago. Mr. K still had the same warm eyes and gentle mannerisms, and maybe Seijuro’s childhood crush hadn’t been misplaced.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” Mr. K said, stepping out of his shoes. “I caught a bus here the first chance I got so I could speak to you in person. I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No, not at all. Would you like something to drink?”

“Well, water would be lovely. Is your father home?”

“No. He won’t be home until… later.” It was payday. Seijuro’s father wouldn’t be returning until well past midnight, after getting kicked out of the local bar for drunkenness. Seijuro set down a pair of water glasses on the dining table.

“Good. I wanted to talk to you about your options without him overhearing now... that your mother has passed away.”

“You’re no longer my case worker.”

“I know. I wanted to talk to you as a friend. Best friends, remember? You have options, and I wanted to make sure you knew that. I know this is hard to hear, but you can press charges against your father.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Well,” Seijuro could see Mr. K struggle to put his words delicately, “for what he did to you and your mother. For the abuse. We can work to get you emancipated or in foster care, just anywhere that’s safe.”

The two water glasses stood between Mr. K and Seijuro on the table. _Safe_ , Seijuro thought. He thought about the gnarled tree in the backyard, about the countless birthday gifts and allowances and favorite snacks it had taken over the years, about how it took his mother, and how it had given nothing in return. And the same intrusive thought that had haunted Seijuro since that one fateful summer day when he found out about its dark history: _What if it needs something more?_

Mr. K’s neck looked pliable under the linen shirt he was wearing. He was a slight man, and Seijuro had changed a lot in five years.

“Can we talk about this in the backyard? I’d like to show you something, Sena.”

“Mr. K,” he corrected gently. “Of course Seijuro. A bit of fresh air should help us think this through.”

They slipped on their shoes, and Seijuro led them outside. Mr. K’s demeanor changed at the sight of the tree and its tangled shadow.

“This tree has been here for almost five generations,” Seijuro said.

“It… it sure is something…” Mr. K had his back to Seijuro, unable to take his eyes from the tree. “Maybe we could work something out, about you keeping the house when you turn eighteen.”

“It’s not about the house. It’s about the tree. My mother told me that if we take care of it, it’ll protect us, like magic. But it’s a curse. It’s never been satisfied by what I’ve given it. Because I’ve never given it enough.”

Mr. K – _Sena_ , it was Sena now, it had always been Sena – turned around, but not quickly enough. Seijuro was on him in a flurry of movement and limbs. At the same time, the creaking of the tree's roots started rumbling underneath them, eager. Sena opened his mouth to scream out, but he instead froze, his eyes stunned. Seijuro picked Sena up, one hand covering his mouth, the other around his waist, and dragged Sena to the waiting, wriggling roots of the tree.

Sena whimpered out as the roots coiled around him, but then Seijuro turned around, and let the tree feast in privacy. He licked at his bleeding lips and realized that he had kissed Sena in all the confusion and that Sena had bitten him in return. His heart was beating furiously in his chest, but everything else felt muted. Maybe he was going into shock. When Seijuro looked back again, there was no trace of Sena, not even his shoes.

* * *

That night Seijuro’s father came home at 5:37 pm on a pay-day.

“I brought take out,” Gaku said mildly, bagged Styrofoam containers on the kitchen table. He set out two plates and started helping himself. Seijuro opened the takeout box closest to him. Inside were two cheese taiyaki.

Seijuro stared at his father, and Gaku's eyes, for the first time, looked like Sunday afternoons.


End file.
